


The World Sometimes Just Happens (But My Heart Still Beats The Same)

by MalachiWalker



Series: Rhythm & Blues (C'mon, Darlin', Make Some Noise) [5]
Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: (IE a complete monster), Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, Fright Zone 2: Electric Boogaloo, Gaslighting, Rated M for Shadow Weaver being Shadow Weaver, adora you're six you shouldn't have more rage/depression than a grown adult, autistic character written by an autistic, bringing the hurt to the hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:00:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22513639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalachiWalker/pseuds/MalachiWalker
Summary: Adora Eternia is a girl from nowhere, and has picked up enough rage and abandonment issues along the way to form a damn subscription. But she's got a purpose to anchor her and a best friend to look out for, so it's all good, right?... At least until she gets slapped with the realization that she's in love with said best friend. So between constantly fending off Shadow Weaver, the horrors of puberty and the way Catra sometimes makes very little sense... It's gonna be a long four years to graduation.
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Series: Rhythm & Blues (C'mon, Darlin', Make Some Noise) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1519079
Comments: 53
Kudos: 208





	The World Sometimes Just Happens (But My Heart Still Beats The Same)

**Author's Note:**

> All right folks, sorry for the wait. But we're back at the Fright Zone and y'all know what that means: Shadow Weaver torturing kids for fun and profit. This was originally going to just includd a small "how we got here" recap before dropping into the new stuff, but... -looks at the word count- Yeah, that didn't happen. So here's the first two chapters of Sentimental Journey remixed from Adora's POV along with some new stuff.
> 
> So, trigger warnings: Shadow Weaver's entire existence. But if you want me to get more specific, there's emotional/psychological manipulation, gaslighting, abuse of a neurodivergent character specifically targeted to their neurodivergence, offscreen torture, self-loathing spirals, abandonment issues and major depression.

Adora Eternia's earliest memory is when she's about four years old, and one of the orphanage attendants crouches down in front of her with a pained look on her face and says a set of words she's become all too familiar with. "I'm sorry, Adora. They wanted to adopt, but... Well, in the end they realized they couldn't."

 _Lie_.

Because even if she can't recall the exact memory itself, she remembers an echo of another adoption attempt that fell through, when she'd slipped away to stand outside the door to the main office and overheard the words, "What do you _mean_ she's on the ASD spectrum? What exactly are you trying to pull here?"

She doesn't understand what those words mean, but she understands that people don't usually consider adoption if they can't follow through, much less go through the entire process of coming in and meeting with the kids. It wouldn't make sense. For it to happen multiple times?

That means there's something wrong with _her_.

The certainty only intensifies when the attendant reaches out to touch her shoulder, only to stop and reconsider halfway through, pulling her hand back.

Adora wants so desperately in that moment to be touched and held and told everything will be alright, but the want is so deep and painful that it stops up her throat and she can't say a thing, can't muster a sound past that bottomless ache.

"Do you want to go to the music room?"

Hardly able to breathe around what she really wants, Adora simply nods and pulls herself to her feet. She's grown used to picking herself up.

That's her oldest memory.

\----------

Adora Eternia is a child from nowhere.

The other children at the orphanage all come from somewhere. Even if it's only a few scattered, treasured memories or blurry photographs tucked into pockets, they have traces of that somewhere carried on their backs like a warm coat permanently draped across their shoulders. They have "parents," people who cared for them once but were now gone, but whose presence could never be denied by the world.

Adora has no one.

(Later on in life when she is young and full of rage, she tracks down her birth records, such as they are. 'Eternia' is the name of the hospital she was dropped off at one cold January night. Adora... She doesn't know about that one. Maybe given to her by someone kind on staff that night, a futile attempt at a good luck charm to carry with her in the future.

Adora Eternia. Forever adored.

Nineteen years old and still aching from the wound that will not heal, she crumples the copy of her 'birth certificate' and hucks it into the trash with a choked sob. _What a fucking joke_.)

\----------

She's about four and a half when they discover her "special talent."

The music room is comforting in a way Adora can't quite put into words. Noisy, yes, but there's a structure to the sound that sets it apart from the chaotic backwash she has to live through elsewhere. So even though the adults cock their heads at her as if confused, they eventually get used to her presence, curled up on a beanbag in the corner with her eyes closed and just listening to the music around her.

Until the day comes when she first displays her talent.

One of the part-timers is there, strumming on a guitar, teaching an older girl how to read the major chords by ear, but there's something... Off about the music. Some underlying break, a disruptive element to the structure, to what the music _should_ be.

It sets Adora's teeth on edge, hands balling into tiny fists until she can't take it anymore. "Bad."

That, oddly enough, gets their attention. Because even though Adora frequently makes sounds--little hums and chirps to anchor her through the other noise--she doesn't speak up all that much. "What's wrong, Adora? Do you want to go somewhere else?"

That's the last thing Adora wants, shaking her head furiously. What she really wants is for the sound to be _right._

"Bad," She repeats again, and pulls herself up onto the bench beside the part-timer. Reaching over carefully, she plucks experimentally at the strings until she finds the one that makes her grind her teeth. She looks up at the part timer with a frown and plucks it again. "It's bad. Make it right."

By this point a few other workers have congregated nearby, eyes upon her as the player picks up an electronic tuner and takes a look. Their eyes widen just a bit before they begin slowly adjusting the string on the guitar, making little changes until finally the tension unwinds from Adora's shoulders because the sound is finally right again.

The part-timer looks at her closely, closer than maybe anyone else ever has. "You can hear that?"

Adora's brow furrows, because what kind of dumb question is that? "Can't you?"

They look at the other workers then, something oddly pensive in the set of their jaw and Adora can't escape the feeling that she's done something wrong again. "We need to tell the boss about this."

Later, there's a lot of big words tossed around to try to explain to her what it all means, but the general consensus is that what she had done was not normal. Not bad, necessarily, but not something most four year olds would be capable of.

But for once, Adora isn't worried by being different. Not when she starts her lessons on guitar soon after, and begins to lose herself in the rhythm and structure of the sound.

Adora's oldest memory is a jagged wound across her heart, but right beside it... There's music.

\----------

She's a smidge older than five when a fancy car pulls up outside the orphanage, and a tall elven woman with sallow skin and olive green eyes and inky black hair ( _almost like shadows,_ Adora thinks to herself, and that worries her in a way she can't really put into words) steps out alongside an enormous beastman covered in thick, dark brown fur.

She introduces herself. "Sylvia Weaver, headmistress of Right Zone Academy of Arts."

The man who runs the orphanage, Silas, is taken aback and flat-footed as he shakes the woman's gloved hand and sputters, "Forgive me, but I thought Right Zone typically sent out agents to conduct evaluations?"

This is the first time Adora has heard anything about this: about Right Zone, about "evaluations."

"Yes, well..." The woman--Weaver--purrs thoughtfully as she locks those too pale eyes straight on Adora. "That is usually true. But this is a bit of a... Special case."

And there's something there, something about the way she says that with her eyes on Adora that makes the back of her neck prickle with alarm (a sensation that in coming years Adora will learn to identify as a 'predator sense,') but she finds herself shoving it aside in the actual moment.

Because this woman who seems important, who gives off the impression of someone who has very little time to waste, came all this way to see _Adora._

So even though Adora's too-soft heart warns her not to... She hopes.

Later, after watching her play for close to an hour, taking notes all the while and occasionally asking questions, Weaver puts a hand on top of Adora's head. "Would you like to come study at my school?"

Adora, unable to help leaning into the touch despite the coldness of that hand even through the glove, just nods.

\----------

She'll later learn that it's unusual for children to enroll on a half year, but it wasn't as if she had anything else going on. So midway through March, Adora finds herself taking up residence at Right Zone Academy of Arts, a private school in a small town about a thirty minute drive from the city of Bright Moon. (Not that Adora knows or cares about what Bright Moon is until much later, but she admits then that the location is extremely convenient.)

For the first time in her life she has a room to herself. It's on the third floor, looking out on an enormous tree and the rolling lawn and the small sea of trees encircling the perimeter of the school.

She has a bunk bed, which she quickly claims the bottom of--too unsure of her ability to stay balanced up top--but when she asks, Ms. Weaver tells her she is unlikely to get a roommate.

"It would really only be necessary if we ran out of space," She says when she stops by Adora's room on the first day. 'Checking in' she called it. "But that's fine. A roommate would just be a distraction, and you're far too talented for that, Adora."

Even though Adora's heart sinks at the thought of being alone in this room for years and years, she still perks up at the word "talented." It's a good word. It means she's _wanted_.

Ms. Weaver must see something she likes, because she chuckles lowly and reaches out to stroke the top of Adora's head. "Good girl. So eager to learn. But remember, Adora: talent will only get you so far. You have to work at it and not let anything or anyone distract you."

Adora frowns, because she doesn't understand why wanting a roommate would equal not focusing on music (and it wasn't as if she was practicing all the time), but she nods anyway.

"Good girl," Ms. Weaver repeats again, still stroking Adora's head like an obedient puppy. "You are the most talented recruit I've ever seen in my time here, Adora. I simply want to ensure you make the best of it."

"What about you?"

For the first time (and those moments would be very rare during her time at Right Zone) Weaver seems caught off guard by the question. "Pardon?"

Adora fidgets. "People... Don't do things for free. Why are you helping me?"

"Hmm..." The older woman strokes her chin thoughtfully. "Well, if you want some of the truth, if you were to become a famous musician that would be a benefit to Right Zone. More people would hear about it and apply, and the government might give us more funding, so we can help more children. But that's not the only reason."

And here she smiles: a warm, kind smile that doesn't reach her eyes and makes Adora shiver a little beneath it. "It simply makes me happy to see my pupils performing to the best of their ability. It makes me proud."

 _Proud_. That's something Adora never thought would apply to her, something she'd given up on wanting, and now...

She nods, resolute, and pounds a fist against her tiny chest the way she'd seen in a few old cartoons back at the orphanage. "I won't let you down."

The smile widens, showing more teeth. "Good girl."

\----------

The other students don't seem to like Adora much. She's used to people thinking she's annoying, and she is the youngest student enrolled in Right Zone--so everyone she talks to seems so much smarter than she is right now and that makes Adora more nervous and chatty than usual--but their reaction is a little... Different to the way things were outside.

Because when Adora first approaches them--usually because their sound is good and "how did you do that" and "can you show me," because she doesn't really know how to talk to them on equal footing when she's this young--they generally seem to like it, especially if she's polite and doesn't bother them until there's a lull in the music. At that point, a lot of the students seem to catch her enthusiasm, rattling off bits and pieces of knowledge about switch-overs and advanced techniques and demonstrating their skill and showing Adora how to move her fingers just right and Adora _loves_ it, loves the feeling of camaraderie and shared passion for music and feeling connected to the people around her.

It never lasts, though. Sooner or later, she'll approach them as usual, only for the other student to eye her warily. They'll still show her what they were doing, answer her questions, but there's no taking her hands and showing her how to place them. There's no sitting together talking excitedly about pieces they're working on or what they learned in Grizzlor's class today.

There's no more companionship.

"They're simply jealous," Ms. Weaver assures her during one of her weekly check-ins. "They see the way you're excelling and they know they can't compete. So they don't want to help you, because it would make them inferior to you. Best just to view them as necessary stepping stones on your own path to success."

(Nearly two decades later when she's a member of BFS and they're just beginning work on their second album, Adora runs into a former Fright Zone graduate she remembers from back in those days. He's the one who tells her that any time someone got close to Adora--especially if they touched her--they would get called to Weaver's office and told exactly what was and wasn't allowed. And the look in his eyes as he thinks about it... Adora is _very_ familiar with that far away stare.

Adora damn near vomits, partly because it was so _obvious_ in hindsight, but mostly because of the sick resurgence of feelings from those days; shame and guilt and confusion and _what did I do?_ and knowing that people got _hurt_ because of her.

That night she lays into her punching bag until she bleeds. It doesn't help.)

But in the present, her shoulders slump and she stares at the floor while she processes Weaver's words. Adora doesn't want anyone to feel inferior to her. She just wants to talk about music and see other people excited about it too and to do the best she can and feel a little closer. She doesn't want to make anyone feel bad.

"It's all right, Adora," Ms. Weaver puts a hand on her cheek and Adora leans in, still unable to help herself. "Don't be ashamed of being better than they are. You don't need to worry about what any of the other cadets think, just focus on your own progress."

So for the most part, she stops asking.

\----------

The summer is hard on her.

Stopping school just when she had just gotten used to it disrupts her sense of rhythm, and the class days suddenly being cut back to four hours only heightens the agitation. Adora suddenly has way too much free time to be alone in her room, inside her own head. She hates it.

At least Weaver seems pleased when Adora asks her about the possibility of supplemental lessons with Grizzlor. "I'm happy you're taking your education seriously, unlike these other layabouts. I'll talk to Grizzlor this afternoon and work out a schedule with him. Use this opportunity wisely."

Adora likes working with Grizzlor. He's gruff and he swears more than Adora suspects a teacher should, but he's also unfailingly attentive to his job. No matter who the student or the error in question, he can always pinpoint what exactly is going wrong and demonstrate how to fix it, before drilling new muscle memory into the student's bones until the mistake is just a thing of the past.

He's also very good at pinpointing when Adora's starting to flag.

"Take ten, kiddo," He tells her, popping open a drawer in his desk and tossing her a juice box. "No point in these lessons if you fuck yourself up, got it?"

Adora just nods and sips at her drink, but she doesn't really listen. Because if she's not making music, not cultivating her raw _talent_ into skill... What even is she?

Just Adora. The child from nowhere. The one nobody wanted. And that's more horrifying to her at the time than the future realization that--at five and a half years old--Adora had already come dangerously close to her first real burnout.

Something had to give eventually. And midway through summer, something did.

It was the class wide performance evaluations that did it. Right at the tail end of June, under Ms. Weaver's critical eye, Adora fumbled her way through a rendition of Bach's Bourrée in E Minor. It wasn't a major catastrophe, but several times she did literally fumble because she was exhausted and her head hurt and she'd spent most of last night unable to sleep because she wanted to continue practicing but it was past curfew and--!

Ms. Weaver's voice cuts through the litany of mental excuses. "Adora... Come see me in my office after class."

Adora nods, and after Weaver stalks out the door she cautiously glances at the other kids around her, expecting to see glee at the prodigal child finally getting knocked down a peg. But the faces around her... They just look concerned, kids suddenly fidgeting and avoiding eye contact. Nervous.

It doesn't make any sense.

Even Grizzlor has a few words when she puts away her practice guitar and prepares to follow the other students out. "Hey, don't worry about it, okay? Sometimes these things just happen, even to the best musicians. Being off your game once doesn't mean anything."

 _It does,_ Adora thinks. _If I'm not doing my best then what am I doing?_

Right Zone, Ms. Weaver, they wanted her for her talent. She could give them that. She had to.

So she makes her way to the office, stares at the door for a long minute while she musters up the courage to knock, all too aware that making Ms. Weaver wait is a bad idea. Two quick raps, and a voice within simply says, "Come in."

Turning the knob, Adora shuffles into the room, taking inventory to avoid looking at the room's occupant. Walls so white they made her eyes hurt, bookcases in opposite corners, a huge dark-colored wooden desk with a single visitor's chair in front of it.

Behind the desk, Ms. Weaver isn't looking at Adora (which shouldn't be comforting, but it is) and is instead focusing on some papers in front of her. "Have a seat, Adora."

She moves cautiously over to the chair and climbs up into the seat.

"Can you tell me why you're here?"

Adora fidgets, swallowing past the sudden knot on her throat. "I messed up."

"You did. But can you tell me how exactly you messed up?"

"Didn't do well enough on my performance test."

"Correct again. I was afraid this would happen," Weaver sighs, massaging the bridge of her nose in that all too familiar way when people ran out of patience with her. Then she stands and makes her way to stand beside the chair, looking down at Adora. "Remember what I said when you first came here, Adora: you are talented, but that will only take you so far. All the talent in the world won't allow you to succeed, not if you don't apply it. Not if you begin to slack."

The ache in her throat intensifies and there are tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, but she still nods and sniffles a "Yes, ma'am."

"Good."

That word again, and Adora perks up, hoping beyond hope for a kind touch, a reassurance, anything...!

But Weaver doesn't touch her at all, just turns away and moves back to her desk and Adora's chest _aches_. "You may go. Try not to disappoint me again."

Adora understands the message.

_I can give you what you want. But I can take it away just as easily._

When her next performance evaluation rolls around, her fingers are covered in bandaids, but she's back on top. Right where she needs to be.

\----------

It's August when her life changes forever.

(It's by no means her earliest memory, but if someone were to ask, it would be the one Adora would _like_ it to be. It's the first good, pure memory she can recall, untainted by later revelations or hardship. The moment her life finally became hers. The moment she came alive.)

She's coming back from regular school in town with the other cadets when Grizzlor stops her on the stairs, carefully steering her away from the crush of bodies to the bannister with one massive paw. "Heads up, kid. You got a new roommate today."

"Really?" Even though her mind warns her not to, that this is exactly the kind of thing Weaver has warned her about, she can't help the transparent eagerness that goes into the words.

"Yeah. Reminds me a lot of you actually, in the way she plays. But take it slow, okay? She seems like the type to warm up to people gradually."

"Yes sir," Adora answers, and although she's a little disappointed to hear that she still can't help the eager bouncing of her feet.

"Yeah, don't call me that. 'Sir' is for respectable types like Ray Charles, not grumpy old bastards like me," But he winks, making it obvious that he's joking. "Call me that again and I'll run you through double exercises later."

Adora just laughs, because they've had this conversation before, because she knows he wouldn't really. "Yes, Grizzlor."

"Good. Now hustle off. I know you want to."

Even though Adora tries to play it cool, she still takes the stairs two at a time until she's standing in front of her door with the A. Eternia sign (no other name, but if her new roommate just got here, that makes sense.) After taking a breath to steady herself and grin, she opens the door.

At first it seems like nothing has changed: same messy bed, same stack of books she'd borrowed from the library until she could purchase her own copies, her desk and the notes atop it untouched. But then she picks up the sound of breathing, mixed in with little sounds of distress, coming from the top bunk. Adora's grin fades, brow furrowing.

Trying to be quiet in case she startles her new roommate but unable to ignore those noises, she carefully clambers up the ladder and peeks over the edge.

 _Oh_.

Her new roommate is a Magicat. Adora hasn't met one before, only knows about them from books and mandatory classes on hybrid-human interactions. They made up less than one percent of the total population and tended to stick to their own communities and group units (which had always made Adora feel a small pang of envy, even if she didn't want to.) The fact that one was here now...

But more importantly, her new roommate makes a new noise in her sleep--a small whine--and curls harder in on herself in the corner, one leg propped possessively over the actual, honest-to-god full-sized guitar sitting on the bed beside her. Her orange and striped fur is all puffed out, dark ears pulled in against her head, and despite Grizzlor's recommendation Adora just can't go back to her bunk or desk and listen to this for who knows how long.

So she pulls herself up onto the bed and inches slowly forward. Reaching out with one hand, she pauses for a moment, because even though part of her wants to see if those ears are as soft as they look she still remembers the scolding she got at the orphanage when she touched a lizard-kin's tail without his permission (she'd only wanted to know if the scales were as cool to the touch as she imagined, but apparently that didn't matter.) So instead, she opts to lay a hand on her shoulder. "Hey, are you okay-"

The girl explodes into action with a sharp hiss, and Adora reflexively jumps back, heart hammering at the sudden shift in gravity as one leg goes off the bed...

Then a hand snatches the front of her shirt and pulls her back towards safety, and when she releases the hold Adora collapses onto the mattress with a giggle born more of adrenaline than anything else.

"Wow," She says a little breathlessly, looking up at the other girl with a grin. She's staring at Adora, almost like she can't believe what she's seeing and _wow_ she has pretty eyes. Cyan and gold. Adora can't remember _ever_ having met someone with two different colors before. "Thanks for saving me. Sorry I scared you."

That snaps the other girl out of her stupor. "You didn't scare me!"

Adora stifles another giggle. _Sure I didn't._

The girl watches her for another long moment, before hastily blurting out, "Why are you in my room?"

"Duh. It's my room, too." Smiling, Adora holds out her hand. "My name's Adora. What's yours?"

The girl stares at her cautiously, tail lashing back and forth, but just when Adora thinks she should go back down the ladder and give her some space... She reaches back and takes her hand. "Catra."

It's probably just the fur, Adora tells herself, but that touch is the warmest she can ever remember.

\----------

Being around Catra makes it very hard to follow Grizzlor's advice. Because having experienced that warmth, Adora finds herself drawn to it like a moth to the proverbial flame, even though her rational mind keeps screaming that to let herself want this will only make it hurt more when it all inevitably comes crashing down.

It's both exciting and completely nerve-wracking, the way she finds herself gravitating towards Catra, all nervous questions and suggestions and trying so _hard_ not to screw this up.

But to her surprise... Catra doesn't pull away.

Rather, she leans in to Adora, either going along with her suggestions or offering her own (usually even better, like she knows Adora better than she knows herself,) and it all feels so good that Adora forgets about the cold for a while.

The first time Catra reaches out to hold her hand, Adora thinks she's gonna faint, until Catra grins at her in that all too-knowing way. "You still there, dork?"

Living up to Weaver's exacting standards is still hard, but with Catra here... It's hard not to feel excited again. Especially when they discover they both have the same special talent, that "perfect pitch" Ms. Weaver sometimes goes on about when she's emphasizing how Adora needs to stay on top of things. It's a point of connection, a commonality beyond just their age and shared living situation.

Then Catra introduces her to classic rock, and it's like all the music that's been ground down inside her surges back to life and Adora loves it. For the first time she can remember, she feels secure in her convictions, grounded in the bone-deep certainty that in the grand scheme of things she's exactly where she needs to be. And that's by Catra's side.

That's why the first nightmare scares the hell out of her.

She's jolted out of a dead sleep by an agonized howl, getting tangled in her own blankets and nearly faceplanting in her haste to get to the light switch because she can't see in the dark the way Catra can. She throws the switch, ignoring the pain in her palm when she smacks too hard, and whirls to see a dazed Catra pushing herself up on her knees and bright red speckling the carpet.

Adora slides across the floor regardless of any potential rugburn as she grabs at Catra's shoulders and tries to maneuver her so she can see. "Catra! Are you okay? You're bleeding!"

She is: blood trickling from her nose and down her face to her lips. She grimaces at the taste when her tongue reflexively darts out to clean them, before asking, "Is it broken?"

Adora gingerly reaches and places her fingers on either side of her nose--flinching in turn when Catra winces despite her attempts to be gentle--maneuvering to feel at the bones underneath. "I don't think so. You're still bleeding a lot, though."

Her eyes cut sideways to the blanket half dangling off the top bunk. "What happened?"

Catra ducks her head, not meeting Adora's gaze. "Nightmare."

But before Adora can open her mouth to ask "What kind of nightmare?" the door swings open and one of the other teachers pops their head in. "Heard some shouting. You kids all right?"

"Fine," Catra replies forcefully before Adora can even gather hsr thoughts. "Just fell off the top bunk in my sleep."

Adora's suddenly very glad she didn't get a chance to ask when she literally _feels_ that tightening of the shoulders beneath her hands, sees the way Catra's tail curls reflexively around herself, the ears that twitch as she fights to not draw them back against her skull.

 _Don't_ , her intuition says. _Don't hurt her._

So she doesn't ask, even when the teacher retreats and they're alone again.

But she has to say something, so she just blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. "Does that happen often?"

Catra shrugs, still not looking at Adora. "I have nightmares pretty often. They're usually not that bad, though."

And Adora remembers. Remembers nights over the past month when she'd woken up to use the bathroom or her legs got restless or she was thirsty and she'd catch faint noises from the bunk above. She hadn't known what to do, had been too scared that waking Catra or letting on that she'd heard was just... One of those lines you didn't cross once you weren't strangers anymore. One of those unspoken rules she never seemed to get.

Catra's eyes squeeze shut, hands balling into fists and Adora wishes she had said something sooner. _I'm sorry._

Adora's not great at words. She knows that. So instead of fumbling her way through that, she grabs a box of tissues from the nightstand and--scooting towards Catra, still lost in her own world--reaches out and starts dabbing the blood from her roommate's fur.

Catra's eyes open, and she fixes Adora with that look she gets sometimes, like she's watching two things at once and doesn't know which to focus on but can't really stop. Adora just smiles back, even though it hurts, and keeps at it until the tissues come away mostly clean, mumbling little reassurances until the job is done.

Needing to make some distance so Catra won't think she's being weird, she stands and turns off the light. She can barely make out the white walls of the room in the sudden absence, much less anything else.

A hand takes hers in the black, tugging her along gently until her knees bump into the bottom bunk.

"Thanks," Adora murmurs, everything suddenly too loud inside her head, and when that hand tries to disentangle she hangs on: too desperate for more of that warmth to care that she's being clingy. "Um... You could stay down here, if you want to."

Her vision is starting to come back, because she clearly sees it when Catra starts to respond and Adora _panics_ , babbling out the first excuse she can come up with to justify the words without making herself look like a weirdo. Something about bacon burritos, she remembers later.

But Catra just watches her with that look that seems to cut right through her, before whispering, "All right," and all of the adrenaline bleeds from Adora at once alongside the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She shuffles back along her bed, tugging Catra with, trying to figure out how to do this in a way that's comfortable for both of them.

Eventually Catra nudges Adora onto her back and then curls across Adora's lower legs, head pillowed on one of her thighs and the weight and pressure is so good Adora nearly cries.

She's been aching for this for so long, for someone to be close to her. So without even thinking about it, she reaches down and starts stroking through Catra's hair, feeling her tense up for a moment before relaxing into the touch. Until Adora's finger brushes against something soft and Catra lets out a little noise of surprise. Unsure if it was a pain sound, Adora carefully moves back and freezes when she realizes she's touching Catra's ears.

Swallowing past the memory of 'You don't _do_ that, Adora,' she whispers, "Is this okay?"

Catra chews over her words. "Yeah. Just be gentle... They're really sensitive at the tips."

Gentle. Adora can do gentle. She resumes her ministrations, relying less on the edge of her fingernails and instead stroking gently along the line and back of Catra's ears, scritching more firmly when she doubles back to the firmer cartilage around the base. Catra lets out a little sigh, leaning in with more of that pressure and just when Adora thinks it can't get any better... There's a rumbling in Catra's throat.

Adora doesn't even realize she's stopped dead in her tracks because _Oh God that's cute_ until Catra makes a little mewl of discontentment and opens her left eye--the gold one--to look up at her. "Is it weird?"

 _No. I'm the weird one for wanting this so bad._ Shaking the thought out of her head, Adora whispers back, "No... Not weird. Just... Different. Different in a good way."

Catra gives her a little smile in the dark, before leaning her head back into Adora's hand and that blessed, rumbling purr starts up again.

\----------

Adora isn't an idiot, no matter what kind of looks people give her when she asks questions that apparently have obvious answers to them. So she notices the changes when they start to happen, even if it takes her a while to figure out the why.

The touches between her and Catra become more frequent after that first night: little nudges and brushes when they're out in public (Catra never initiates big stuff then, but she never seems to mind when Adora reaches out for her hand or nudges against her), hugs and hours spent casually leaning against each other in the safety of their room, each doing their own thing but anchored by the other's presence. Plus there was the added detail that Catra had seemingly just accepted that Adora's bunk was the place to be, after a scare when she nearly fell off the top bunk again and was only saved by her foot getting caught between the ladder and the mattress.

And while it's definitely not great that Catra regularly wakes up thrashing or with a strangled yell caught in her throat--and on one memorable occasion almost elbows Adora in the face before she snaps out of it and draws back without making contact--well... they find their rhythm.

If asked, Adora would even admit she was a little proud: proud that after long months of practice she had become adept at detecting when Catra was having a nightmare and heading it off at the proverbial pass with gentle touches and scratching at her ears. Of course sometimes it escalated too fast for her to help, but on good nights she could settle Catra back down without waking her up, let her friend get some actual rest for once.

(Yes, they're friends--a thought that never fails to bring a goofy grin to Adora's face no matter how often Catra teases her over it.)

But the point remains: Adora isn't an idiot, and she most certainly isn't tunnel-visioned, at least not completely. Not when it's Catra.

So she notices the first time Catra pulls away from her touch.

It was a day or two after that first trip to Ms. Weaver's office. Catra had been quiet since then; not completely withdrawn and usually snapping out of it when Adora was around, but still... Distant. Adora could understand that; the few times she had been called to Weaver's office always left her feeling terrible and small and not good enough. Fragile to the touch.

So even though she wanted to do anything but, she gave Catra some space to work through that, no matter how much she worried when she reclaimed the top bunk and didn't really say why.

 _We've only been together for a little while_ , Adora reminded herself. _And it's not like you share everything with her either._

Those words she doesn't understand still haunting her, always lurking in the corner of her mind: " _What do you_ _mean_ _she's on the ASD spectrum?"_

(What was wrong with her?)

But on that day, they'd had a good practice session and Catra had just finished teaching her how to play "Knocking on Heaven's Door" and for just a moment, Adora completely forgot that she was supposed to be giving Catra her space. She reflexively nudged up against her like they always did, but Catra had already turned away to put her practice guitar up.

Adora's gentle nudge hit her back instead.

Catra let out a low hiss and stepped away, hand instinctively going to the spot before she seemingly remembered where she was and dropped it, plastered on a smile that was obviously fake and Adora knew deep in her gut that something was terribly wrong.

"Are you okay?" The words were weak, but they were all she had.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Catra replied with that fake smile, bouncing on her heels as if to say, 'See?' "Must have slept on my back wrong. Gotta stay close to the wall to keep from falling off, you know?"

"You can always come back down, if you want."

And for the first time in this entire exchange, there's a real smile. Soft. Sad. "Maybe later."

She doesn't come back down for nearly two weeks.

\----------

Torture

noun

The act of inflicting excruciating pain, as punishment or revenge, as means of getting a confession or information, or for sheer cruelty.

Adora stared down at the dictionary, trying to process what she was seeing over the backwash of _hurtanger_ ** _pain_ ** suffusing her entire system.

_"Hey, heard that Leandros kid got sent to Weaver's office again." Another student's voice came around the corner and Adora froze, hugging the wall as she listened, not caring that she was eavesdropping._

_"Yeah," Another voice replies. "You think she'd know better than to keep pissing her off by now. Kid's a glutton for punishment."_

_"Honestly, I kinda wanna thank her. At least with her around, the rest of us get a break from the torture."_

_Adora's brow furrows. She doesn't know that word._

_"Heh, yeah. Guess old Weaver's got two favorites now, huh?"_

_The two descend into chuckles and change the subject. Ignoring the books already in her backpack, Adora turns on her heel and heads back toward the library to find a dictionary._

She regrets it now, more than anything she's ever regretted in her entire life.

Because in this moment, everything comes together. The way Catra always sleeps in the top bunk for days if not weeks after visiting Weaver's office. The way she flinches away from anything touching her back. The way she sometimes just... Disappears. Not physically, but the way her eyes go distant and a vast gulf opens up between them until Adora whispers, " _Come back._ "

But most of all... The way Ms. Weaver keeps asking her about Catra whenever they're alone together, after Adora's usual performance evaluations.

_"And how are things going with your roommate?"_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"If she's causing you any trouble, I simply want to know. We can make arrangements to prevent that."_

_"She's not causing me any trouble."_

_"Hmm... Well, your grades are outstanding, as usual. Nevertheless, if there ever comes a time when you want to be rid of her, please let me know."_

A few droplets of water spatter onto the page, but Adora barely notices over the pain of her clenched jaw and the sheer, bottomless HATE welling up inside her. _That fucking_ _bitch_ _._

\----------

She keeps a closer eye on Catra after that, studies her the same way she'd study sheet music or theory or chord progressions, and all the while the rage simmers--dark and violent--inside her. Because it's so damn _obvious_ now, what Catra's going through, but Adora still doesn't know what to do. She knows Catra, knows that after the months of deflection and little lies that confronting her directly will only make her armor up more, hide more, and Adora doesn't want any more distance between them.

So she watches and waits for an opportunity.

But that doesn't make the rage go away.

The first time a student tries to stomp on Catra's tail after that, Adora busts her knuckles open on his teeth.

Of course, Weaver calls her to her office after the nurse finishes patching her up, but Adora just lies through her own teeth (pun intended) and tells her that the other student was jealous of her "talent" and started in on her first. Though she still has enough of a conscience to persuade Weaver that three broken teeth was more than enough punishment--now that she knows what really goes on in this office for anyone who doesn't have "talent" to shield them.

That word is starting to taste like old blood caught in the back of her throat. _Talent_.

Weaver puts a hand on her head, but even though Adora forces herself to lean into that touch like she always did--to not let on what she knows--all she can think about is how much she wants to tear the appendage off and throw it right back in her smug, lying face.

After, she collapses onto her stomach and buries her face in the mattress, trying to let the anger run its course even as her throat and fists tighten in equal measure. There's a soft thud of someone dropping beside the bed (it's been a week and a half since the last time; Catra must be feeling better.)

"Hey… You alright?" The space beside her dips and a warm hand runs across the back of Adora's tensed neck, the other cautiously spreading out along her back. Checking for damage, she realizes--but without making it obvious that was what she was doing--and Adora's heart _hurts_ at the barely audible sigh of relief Catra gives when the covert investigation turns up nothing.

And no, pretty much nothing is "alright," but at least Adora isn't bleeding. So she lifts her head up from the mattress and mumbles, "I'll be fine."

To her surprise, Catra gives a light chuckle in response. "Translation: I'm totally not fine but I'm gonna be stubborn about it."

 _You're one to talk, Leandros._ But that bitter observation is cut off by the sudden pressure of Catra spreading herself atop Adora's back, their bodies more or less parallel with the sole exception of Catra's legs still being curled towards her former seat. She stretches her arms out past Adora's shoulders, not able to fully reach her clenched fists from her position, but still squeezing and kneading at the taut muscles of Adora's forearms.

It feels so good, but Adora can't help the little frisson of excitement and raw _guilt_ that goes through her at the gesture. "Why are you...?"

Catra shrugs, the increased pressure making a whine catch in Adora's chest. "It makes you feel better."

"How can you tell?"

Catra doesn't reply at first, just presses her forehead harder between Adora's shoulder blades and finally, _finally_ , Adora slackens under the touch. She can't even help it, any more than Catra can help leaning into Adora's ear scratches. It's just instinct.

Catra laughs again, this time with a little rumbling purr at the end. "That's how."

Feeling brave, Adora drops her shoulder a little, drawing her right arm back enough so that Catra can lay her hand atop hers if she wants to. She does so almost immediately. "You're good at that."

There's a small pause. Then...

"I like taking care of you."

Adora wishes she could do the same.

\----------

When the boy with the broken teeth decides to threaten her, for the first time Adora realizes that secrets are a critical weakness, and knowledge gives you a not inconsiderable edge over those around who would take advantage of it.

She's thinking about that as the boy sneers down at her in the second floor hallway not long before curfew (having cornered her on her way back from the showers,) face still a bit puffy but at least able to talk. "I can always tell Weaver why you really attacked me. So you'd better not mess with me again. That little punch of yours was just a fluke."

 _And you really think she'd believe_ _you_ _over me?_ Adora shrugs, mind too busy ruminating on those words that she didn't understand, that held such strange meaning to the people at the orphanage, the would-be parents, to Ms. Weaver... "If you leave Catra alone, I won't have any reason to mess with you."

"Oh right. Your precious pet kitty," The boy snorts, before leaning in with a nasty grin and Adora stiffens, fingers curling into a fist he doesn't spot. "See, I figure you're going to let me do what I want. Because if I tell Weaver you attacked me over the kitty... Well, she's going to be very upset at how her 'favorite pupil' is being distracted by some stray. Who knows what she'd do?"

Adora snaps. _Hard_.

Before he can do anything more than widen his eyes in surprise, she grabs him by the front of his shirt and slams as hard as she can into the wall, feeling the air leave his lungs in an _oof_ of both surprise and pain before she presses her forearm beneath his windpipe, only letting up on the pressure when he gags.

Years later, while sitting in Dr. Hope's office untangling the knotted skein of what the doctor rather understatedly called her "anger issues," Adora would mark that moment as the one where she truly realized just how far she was willing to go to keep Catra safe.

But in the actual moment, there's only white hot anger and a pain that can't be expressed through such primitive means as _words_. So she lets the anger talk instead.

"Listen here, you spineless little bastard," Adora snarls, pressing down on his throat again when he makes a feeble attempt at a punch to her body. "I told Weaver that three teeth was enough of a punishment because I wouldn't wish what she does on anyone. I didn't have to stick up for you, but I did. But if you try to hurt Catra again, directly or indirectly, I won't stop at teeth next time. I will make it so you can never pick up an instrument again. Understand?"

The last word is almost a growl, as Adora leans in so he can see _exactly_ what's lurking under her skin.

The boy nods frantically, gagging a little as he jerks his head up and down. Adora removes her arm and he nearly trips over his own feet running for the stairs.

When the hallway's empty but for her, Adora leans her head against the wall and feels the adrenaline spike slowly ebb away, taking stock of what she just did. The boy had crossed a line, to be sure, but she can't shake the feeling that she'd crossed several in retaliation.

It worries her even more that she doesn't care.

"Adora," A familiar voice calls, and she glances over to see Catra half-jogging towards her. She pulls to a stop maybe a foot away, carefully looking over Adora the way she always does (checking for damage again) before flashing her a quick smile. "You've been gone a long time. Everything good? Or did you just want to be alone?"

 _Alone._..

No. Adora's _tired_ of being alone.

Swallowing past the sudden pain in her throat, she replies, "Upperclassman wanted to talk to me. He had some questions about the middle section of Asturias. I just needed a moment to gather my thoughts after."

"They sure like to drone on, huh? I get that," Catra made that cute little snort-laugh and then, looking around first to check for prying eyes, offered her hand. "Ready to go back?"

If there's a universe out there where Adora doesn't take that hand... Well, it's not the one she's living in, and good damn riddance to any other.

\----------

She keeps an eye on the boy for the next few days, and is pleased to note the obvious flinch he displays when he catches sight of her watching him from across the cafeteria or down the hall. That's one secret that can't be used against her. Two left to lock down.

Her affection for Catra is definitely one. But Weaver... Weaver could be convinced there was no threat if Adora acted it right, pitched it in her language. Exploitation. A way to ensure her own dominance. A convenient act to further her own agenda. Just another stepping stone.

Lies, all of it. But lies were all that Weaver dealt in, so it was at least appropriate.

Which left the other.

She taps Catra's shoulder where she's sitting at the desk, twirling a pencil rather than doing her math homework. "I'm going to go down to the library."

"Ok," Catra mumbles, chewing on her lip before glancing up with a hopeful smirk. "Want me to come?"

Adora almost caves, but manages to stifle the impulse at the last second. She smirks teasingly, nodding at the papers on the desk. "I think you have more important things to focus on."

"Hardly," Catra snorts. "More boring, _maybe_. Just maybe. But I get your point. Have fun with the books."

"Thanks," Adora calls back over her shoulder at the door. "I shouldn't be long. Just need to look something up."

Once down in the library and safely ensconced at the corner computer away from prying eyes, she takes a deep breath, pulls up Google and types in "asd spectrum."

At first, she's just confused, a lot of complicated terms and technical jargon requiring her to open up another window to keep a dictionary on hand. But slowly--painfully--an image starts to take form, words going across the screen and painting a bloody fresco of what it all _means_.

No empathy. Incapable of human connection. Always alone. Gullible. Unfeeling. Uncaring. Changeling. Damaged.

 _Monster_.

She exits the window and logs off with shaking hands before resting her head on the desk, trying to rationalize her way out of this. _There has to have been a mistake. That's not me. I'm not--!_

But there has always been a wall between her and others, hasn't there? Some gap Adora has never known how to cross. A connection she just couldn't make, couldn't figure out how to overcome.

And that… That wasn’t all she couldn’t figure out.

The realization makes her choke back on a sob. Catra was hurt. Catra was hurt and Adora was too caught up in her own hurt feelings and insecurities to clue in to what was going on. No, she made it all about herself, somehow missing the very obvious signs that her best friend was in pain, both emotional and physical. Catra was _tortured_ and she was fucking oblivious until someone else spelled it out for her.

_Uncaring. Unfeeling. No empathy._

… She really is a monster.

(Deep in the center of her chest, the old wound _bleeds._ )

\----------

Adora's quiet for the next week. She can't help it really; any time she loses herself in that comfortable rhythm the words flash across her mind and steal her breath away. She still performs well enough to avoid attention from their teachers, but that's about it.

Catra gives her space--tit for tat--but Adora can tell by the pensive looks she keeps shooting her way that she's getting worried.

It's Sunday and she has nothing to do but let the thoughts circle anxiously through her head when she isn't listening to the soft plucking of strings on the top bunk as Catra runs through her usual maintenance routine. It's soothing; it's normal.

Then those words again: always alone.

Adora chokes on a sob.

The noises above her abruptly cease, a slight rustling of the guitar being moved aside and Catra drops down into a crouch beside the bed, looking at Adora but not saying anything, and Adora wants so badly to hide, to run away and mouth at the wounds until her mouth is as bloody and raw as she feels inside. She settles for pulling her knees to her chest, back against the wall, doing anything she can to avoid looking at her only friend.

_Can do better, should do better, Weaver wouldn't even hurt you if you weren't with me, I don't deserve this, just go please, go away and leave me be--_

_Please_ _ don't._

The racing thoughts halt as a weight settles on the bed, the distinct sound of someone shuffling forward on their knees, and then hands on the sides of Adora's face and a forehead pressed against hers. The touch is warmer than Weaver's could ever be and God it _hurts-_!

" _Shhhhh_ ," The low susurration cuts through the noise again. Catra's features are blurry and Adora abruptly realizes that she's crying and buries her face against her own knees.

Catra's having none of it, though; she props herself against the wall to Adora's left and--ignoring Adora's half-hearted attempts at pushing her away--manages to wrangle them both until Adora's on her side against Catra's chest with her head tucked under her chin and both of Catra's arms wrapped firmly around her. She keeps making that gentle _shh_ -ing sound, a light rumble resounding in her chest as she rocks them from side to side. "It's okay. Tell me where it hurts."

But how can Adora possibly explain when it hurts all over?

Catra, after waiting in silence, draws her own conclusions. "Shadow Weaver, right?"

Even the use of the insulting nickname (" _I mean it fits, right? I swear every time she enters a room it gets darker, and that's when she's in a good mood_.") can't coax a sound out of her but Catra, taking the silence as confirmation, just sighs and mutters, "That old bitch," and holds her tighter.

The words stretch out over what feels like forever.

"It's okay. You're going to be okay." "You don't have to say anything. Just lean on me." "Whatever she tells you, it's not true. She's a goddamn liar."

"I'm here for you."

That's the one that does it. No longer caring if it's selfish or wrong, Adora buries her face in Catra's shoulder and cries.

It seems to take an eternity until she runs out of hurt, hands stroking through her hair and little rumbles against her side, but finally everything is quiet again and Adora can make a passable attempt at composure. Not that she gets much of a chance: not when Catra, still purring slightly, leans in and swipes her tongue across Adora's cheek.

It startles a giggle out of her and Catra, who had momentarily paused--seemingly surprised by her own actions--grins toothily and does it again. This time, the tickling has Adora laughing, making a feeble attempt to push Catra's face away with the arm that isn't trapped against her chest.

(Later, when she's had time to recover she realizes that Catra had licked all the dried tears from her face.)

They pause eventually, Catra watching her with a dopey smile that Adora can't help but mirror. "Better now?"

The guilt is still there, but for now Adora murmurs her assent and tucks her head back under Catra's chin, getting a pleased little hum in response. Catra's head shifts, and there's a soft puff of air across Adora's scalp, along with a gentle touch to the top of her head.

She likes that one a lot more than any touch Shadow Weaver ever gave her.

\----------

Tuesday, the devil herself comes during the last hour of class. "Adora, come to my office. Now."

She walks away, boots sounding heavily down the hall before Adora can even think to reply.

Beside her, Catra tenses up, glancing over at Adora with very real fear in her eyes. Adora wants to say, "It'll be okay, she doesn't hurt me," but, well... That would be both unfair and a lie, wouldn't it?

So she just squeezes Catra's hand where it rests on her shoulder and tries to offer a reassuring smile. It doesn't work.

Just like the first time, seemingly a lifetime ago, she hesitates in front of the door... Before rapping once. Just once.

"Come in."

Like an errant thief sliding through an open window, Adora enters the office. Just as impersonal as ever: painfully white walls, massive desk, bookcase filled with nameless, meaningless tomes she'd never get a close look at. But the sight of this room, rather than invoking boredom or anxiety, instead sets Adora's teeth on edge.

This is the room where it happens.

She swallows down the growl tearing her throat and fights to keep her expression neutral.

Across from her, Shadow Weaver finishes shuffling her paper and looks at her with those pale olive eyes across the expanse of the desk. "Good evening, Adora. How has my prized pupil been doing recently?"

Adora's brow furrows. Just a performance evaluation? Weird... Those usually only took place in her room. Weaver only called her here when something bad was about to happen.

"I'm doing well, Ms. Weaver," She answered carefully, politely, and begins rattling off some details of the translated Mozart piece (Rondo Alla Turca) she'd been using as a study to improve her speed--making sure to mention that Grizzlor had assisted with the translation. The big man deserved some recognition.

Weaver only made slight confirmation noises and scratched some occasional notes. When Adora finished speaking, she glanced up and in that usual sibilant _hiss_ asked, "And are you having problems in any other way? With the other cadets, perhaps?"

Adora goes cold, toes curling in her sneakers to combat the need to ball up her fists. _If that bastard actually told-!_ "No, Ms. Weaver. No trouble at all. Was there something that made you think that?"

Weaver watches her, carefully, like a spider sizing up a fly and Adora wonders how she could ever have thought of this woman as kind. "Merely checking."

Adora snorts. "My marks are good. Why would I concern myself with any of them? Their playing is inferior... Right?"

She's afraid she laid it on a little too thick (first attempt at haughtiness, she'd play it cooler next time) but Weaver gives her a slow, appraising smile. No teeth, but she knows they're there. "Indeed. Very well, that's all I wanted to check on. Good girl, Adora."

Adora sighs, a tiny wave of relief washing over her at the knowledge that it's over, that getting called here wasn't some horrible monstrous thing like it has been every other time she's been in this room. That her secret is safe.

"By the way, Adora."

It's said almost like an afterthought, but she knows better. Adora freezes, hand on the doorknob as she turns back to face the desk. "Yes, Ms. Weaver?"

"I received an interesting email from the library the other day. Apparently... Someone used your ID on the library computers to look up information about the autism spectrum."

All the air feels like it's driven from her lungs in a single blow. Not only the words, but the sudden awareness that Weaver is _spying_ on her. "I- I'm sorry."

"Oh, Adora," Shadow Weaver sighs theatrically as she stands and makes her way over to her, laying one bony hand atop her head. "You've done nothing to be sorry for. But I hope you understand now, why I'm always warning you not to get too close to the other cadets. People can be... Very cruel to those like you. Very cruel indeed."

 _No no no..._ Her mind groans like it's too fast and too slow at the same time and all she can do is ineffectually stutter, "I didn't... I'm not-!"

"I know you're not," Shadow Weaver croons, stroking the top of Adora's head and it's all she can do to keep from knocking it away because _that hand hurt Catra...!_ "You're a good girl, Adora. I simply wish for you to live up to the best of your abilities, and in a school as competitive as this... Well, I'm sure you can understand why I didn't bring it up before now."

Weaver pauses, almost considering.

"We're a lot alike, you and I."

Adora goes cold.

_So that's why… that's why you wanted me. Because I’m supposed to be cold and heartless. Like you. And… and gullible._

All the blood drains from Adora’s head as the full picture comes into focus _._

 _Gullible. Simple-minded. Easily manipulated. You think… you think you can_ _make_ _me like you. Make me anything you want me to be._

"Do you understand, Adora? I'm simply looking out for your best interests."

Adora nods shakily, barely able to speak as she feels the new collar sliding around her throat.

"Just remember: even if you start to feel close to somebody, you should always ask yourself this..."

And then she gives voice to the thought that's been lurking in the back of Adora's mind for weeks, ever since she saw the words "lack of empathy" and "incapable of connection" swimming across the screen.

"Do you honestly think they'd stay with you if they knew what you really are?"

When class ends, Catra finds her curled into a tight ball around her pillow back in their room, but even though she spends hours slowly coaxing Adora back into softness with gentle hands and whispered reassurances, Adora never tells her why.

\----------

The next few months are hell.

It's hard for Adora to relax, constantly scrutinizing students and faculty alike, wondering which ones are in Shadow Weaver's pocket and which ones are just afflicted with the usual Right Zone mix of competitiveness and pettiness. And if her attention isn't on them, then she's keeping a close eye on Catra, frustration growing as her trips to the office become more and more frequent, and later.

The first time Catra rolls her eyes and tells Adora "Don't wait up," it's all Adora can do not to grab her by the shoulders and scream them both deaf.

Even their touches become rarer, reserved for light shoulder bumps that can easily be disguised as accidents in public, hands brushing under tables or between their chairs at guitar practice. Whenever she wants to reach out, her brain hisses, _Too risky! Watch out for the eyes!_ and she curls her hand into a fist at her side.

Instead, she saves everything up for those nights (growing steadily rarer) when Catra doesn't sleep on the top bunk, when she can pull Catra close to her and almost believe things will be alright, all while she silently begs and prays for something to break this cycle of quiet desperation.

Almost a year and a half after all this started, something finally does.

It's the creak of the door that drags her out of the anxious half-sleep she's fallen into since Catra left to go to the office, and instantly Adora knows that something is very wrong. Her ears, hypersensitive in the dark and further heightened by her own anxiety, can pick up Catra's footfalls on the carpet: heavier than usual, and undercut by pained exhalations between gritted teeth. They halt beside her, and there's a very slight clatter... Like the sound of shaky hands grasping a wooden ladder.

A hiss of pain in the dark.

_I can't do this anymore!_

"Catra..?"

Big mistake. The ladder jumps against the bed, and even as Adora bolts upright and tries to grab it, she's far too slow too prevent Catra slipping. There's the sound of a body hitting the floor, and then...

In all her life, Adora will never forget the sound of that scream.

Adora throws herself over the foot railing of her bunk in her haste to throw on the light and whirls around. Catra rocks from her back onto her side, still howling and the white uniform shirt is covered in _red_ and she can barely breathe past all the fear surging inside her but it doesn't fucking _matter-!_

Her knees burn as she slides across the carpet and tugs Catra across her lap, trying to be careful but she can't see all the damage until she's got her there and it's all Adora can do to keep from vomiting. Catra whimpers and without even thinking about it, her left hand goes to her ear even as she uses the right to try and map out the damage.

Catra stiffens at the touch, then buries her face against Adora and starts to sob, and it's all Adora can do to just murmur stupid platitudes and hold her close even while her heart is breaking.

It takes so long, but the sobs eventually quiet into soft, hitching whimpers and Adora swallows hard. Muttering an apology, she places the fingertips of one hand against the base of Catra's neck--holding both her and the shirt steady--while the other hand slides under the hem and begins to pull it free from the dried blood sticking to her fur. It's excruciatingly slow going, pausing at every whimper to let the pain settle until finally it comes loose.

All her inner turmoil dies down when she first sees that jagged gash arching across nearly half of Catra's back. (They're both so small.) Adora goes completely still, unable to hear anything through the roar of blood in her ears.

And through it all, a single, pure thought.

"I'm going to kill her."

Wishful thinking of a wrathful child. A more practical solution comes hot on its heels.

Bargain.

She'll let Weaver apply the choke chain all she likes, let her tell the whole world what Adora _is_ , drive everyone away until it's just her and Weaver. She can take it, as long as Catra stays safe.

Even if it's the only thing, Adora can do this.

"I'm going to stop this. I'm putting a stop to this. Right. _Now_."

She doesn't even realize she's said it out loud until Catra starts in her lap and grabs hold of Adora's waist. "Don't!"

For the second time in her life, something inside Adora snaps.

"Are you insane, Catra?!" She doesn't care that she's shouting now, even as Catra's ears go back and she clings even tighter despite Adora's attempts to pry her off. "Look at yourself! You've been spending more and more time stuck in Shadow Weaver's little _torture_ sessions-"

She spits the word, too angry to care about bluntness, too jagged and splintered to be soft. "-And now your back is split open! How long will it be until she actually kills you?"

Catra removes her face from Adora's belly and snaps back, teeth bared, "And how is you storming in there going to make things better?!"

"I'll figure something out, okay?" Adora snarls, even though the little voice of reason cowering in the back of her mind registers the validity of that question. "I'm her precious 'prized pupil'."

The words taste like ash gumming up her throat. "What good is any of that if I can't leverage it into keeping you safe?"

"Adora."

Catra stares up at her, but all the words Adora's been keeping down for months are bleeding out and she doesn't know how to stop the hemorrhage.

"And why the hell have you just been quiet this whole time, like I wouldn't even _notice_ that you slept in the top bunk every time you went to see her, or winced whenever I touched your back, or jumped every time you heard boots in the hall?!" There are tears pricking the corner of her eyes now. Did Catra think she was some kind of idiot, or...

"Adora..."

"And at this point I frankly don't give a _fuck_ what happens to me if it means keeping the one person who cares about me _for me_ alive-!"

"ADORA!" Catra bolts upright and claps a hand over Adora's mouth, and she almost bites down on instinct before she registers her own desperation mirrored in those mismatched eyes. "It won't work. Shadow Weaver's not going to stop now, not for you or me or anyone else. She enjoys it too _much_."

And Adora already knows that, deep down, but to hear it out loud hurts just as much as the words "what you really are."

Catra's ears droop as she releases her grip and leans her forehead against Adora's, just like that night months ago and Adora'a hands instinctively steady her at the waist as they breathe together in ragged sequence.

"I have to do something," she mumbles, aching. "I'm gonna go crazy if I don't do _something_."

It isn't hyperbole; the last few months have worn her down until she feels stretched as thin as a nylon first string, just waiting to break.

Catra looks at her, and it's that same look from before, half-stunned disbelief and somehow still cutting right through Adora down to the individual chambers of her bleeding heart. "Then help me."

_What?_

"You can't protect me. Weaver won't allow it, and I don't want you putting yourself at risk. But..."

Catra pauses, breathing deep, and it suddenly registers that she's trying just as hard not to hurt Adora as Adora is trying in turn.

"But you can help me after. I can get better a lot faster if you're with me."

She doesn't look away, and Adora recognizes somewhere deep in her bones that this was all inevitable from the start. Shadow Weaver could choke her with as many chains as she liked; it would never measure up to the weight of this moment, right here, right now.

Because Catra needs her, needs her just as much as Adora needs Catra. And that matters more than any "talent" ever could.

_Still making it about you, huh? Can't get what you want from anyone else, so you'll take advantage of any chance you'll get to feel better about yourself. Even your best friend's torture.  
_

_Stop.  
_

"Okay," She rubs her face to hide the inevitable tears, to disguise the sick feeling that settles in her stomach at the intrusive thought. "Okay. I've got you."

With as much care as she can muster now (read: not a whole lot) Adora manages to pull Catra to her feet and close the short distance between them and the bed, ignoring the little grunts of pain as she pushes her belly-down on the mattress and considers her next move. Catra settles the matter for her, groaning as she tries to stretch her arms overhead and Adora hastens to assist her before taking a deep breath and rolling up her shirt. She tosses the bloody rags aside.

It's almost worse to look at now: some of the cuts cracked open and bleeding and she can feel that familiar rage bubbling up again but forcibly shoves it down. It won't help, not here. Not when she needs gentleness.

"Okay..." She murmurs almost to herself. "How do I...?"

Catra waves at the nightstand table, and when Adora opens her drawer she finds a first aid kit buried beneath sheet music and guitar strings. Nearly half of the supplies have already been used, and Adora chomps down on her own tongue as the anger goes supernova once again.

She gets to her feet on shaky legs and settles back at Catra's side, taking the pocket first aid manual from the kit and flipping through it as she works out how to go about this. _Bruises and small cuts first. Then you can focus on the big one._

She grabs the arnica gel and gets to work.

It's slow going, both from the general clumsiness of hands unused to this kind of labor and her determination to cause as little additional pain as she possibly can. It becomes methodical once she figures out the motions: apply arnica to the bruises, trim down the fur wherever she finds cuts before carefully applying the antiseptic. And every time Catra lets out a little whimper or hiss of pain, Adora reaches for her, rubbing gently at the base of her ears because something tells her full on scratching would be too much sensation right now.

But there's no fighting the inevitable, and eventually she runs out of things to do. She grabs the alcohol from the kit, breathing hard because she is so _not_ ready for this, but she has to power through. "This is probably going to hurt a lot, okay? Just breathe."

Catra flashes her an actual thumbs-up, and it's a good thing Adora's preoccupied at the moment or she'd probably lose her shit at the absurdity of it all.

There's a little hiss from Catra as the alcohol makes contact with the wound and her tail writhes until it wraps itself securely around Adora's calf, but it's otherwise a fairly fuss-free process as she waits for the pain to dissipate, stroking her free hand along the back of Catra's head and muttering whatever reassurances she can think of.

It takes a long time to check the entire wound over for caught hair (but no damn way is she letting this wound get infected) until finally she smooths down a non-adhesive bandage and has to trust it'll be enough.

"It's Sunday tomorrow. I'll check it again when we wake up. Whenever that is."

Catra just nods, exhausted, but doesn't protest when Adora lays down next to her and tucks her under her chin, reaching down to tug the comforter up to waist level but no further. She wasn't about to risk irritating Catra's wounds and besides, it wasn't like she needed much in the way of blankets with Catra radiating heat beside her.

The entire awful night winds down slowly, like the fragile breaths caught between them, and Adora's halfway asleep when Catra mumbles against her pulse. "It doesn't matter what she does to me. Or well, it _does_ matter. But I can take it, as long as you're with me. I've got your back if you've got mine."

_'We're a lot alike, you and I.'_

_… I'm not going to be. I'll do whatever it takes, but I'm not going to be like you.  
_

If the thought feels weak right now… well, she's got time in the future to internalize it. She'll believe it eventually. _(Right?)_

For now, Adora settles for wrapping one arm around Catra's neck, careful to avoid her back. "Promise?"

The sensation of a key sliding into a lock. The final piece slotting into a puzzle. A universal constant playing out once more.

"I promise."

There will be many more promises to come between them in the years to come, but that's the one Adora Eternia will never be able to forget.

**Author's Note:**

> Big shoutout to my bud Jo (@[Johannas-Motivational-Insults](https://johannas-motivational-insults.tumblr.com/)) for taking over and reworking two of the major breakdowns. You know what you did. :) You can find her Tumblr at that link, and if you want more exploration of these themes of child abuse, psychological damage and neurogivergence, but set in the canon!universe, check out her fic [Demons](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18026990/chapters/42594701).
> 
> As noted in the tags, I myself am autistic (though my profile is different than Adora's) so a lot of the stuff here is drawn from my own experiences and the autism history I've researched. Adora just happened to choose the worst time ever to look up what "asd spectrum" means, since this period in fic corresponds to the real world anti-vaccination crisis and the period of peak anti-autism panic (and the usage of asd spectrum as a phrase rather than autism spectrum is meant to indicate that the original speaker was a uninformed asshat.)
> 
> In sunnier news, ALL THE THANKS to Nny11writes for commissioning this [AMAZING](https://artomicmuffin.tumblr.com/post/190045184792/commission-for-nny11writes-of-catra-inspired-by) art of Catra in her awful pool party outfit, as well as my bud Alsamil, who [has been using R&B](https://alsamil.tumblr.com/tagged/Rhythm-%26-Blues-%28C%27mon-Darlin%27-Make-Some-Noise%29) to practice their drawing, including a very nice sketch of the fic two reunion/Catradora cuddle puddle. And as always, you can find me on tumblr at [Malachi-Walker](https://malachi-walker.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Next time: Adora Eternia is thirteen years old when she first realizes she's in love with her best friend. To say this complicates things is an understatement.


End file.
